


moving onwards and outwards

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror/Gore, Canon Compliant, Gen, Grieving, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Crying, M/M, Self Acceptance, canonical character deaths, post chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 21:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: After they defeat Pennywise, the other Losers do what they can to help Richie pick up the pieces.





	moving onwards and outwards

**Author's Note:**

> so...chapter two, huh? back at it again w/ my IT bullshit. 
> 
> thanks to Hannah for beta'ing! time to get back into this fucking fandom.
> 
> enjoy!

The regret sits in his chest like a stone, heavy and jagged-edged. 

_He was right there_, Richie thinks._ He looked so brave._ _I could’ve kissed him—I_ should’ve_ kissed him._

They’re an unavoidable burden, these thoughts. The what-ifs. The fantastical notion that maybe, if Richie had been braver, if Richie had yanked Eds down for that stupid kiss, maybe Eddie would still be alive. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been standing up straight like a pin waiting to be struck. Maybe Pennywise would’ve missed.

Or maybe they’d both be dead; speared by that claw. Richie isn’t sure if that would be worse than how he feels now. 

Richie brings his bourbon to his lips with a trembling hand and swallows around the lump in his throat, bitter burning all the way down. The booze sloshes in his empty stomach like a boat in a storm. With a groan, he leans forward and presses his face against the cool wood of the bar.

“Richie?” Comes Beverly’s soft voice. 

He startles; he turns to face her but can’t even muster an attempt at a smile. She approaches him slowly and hesitates before sliding into the barstool next to him.

“Richie,” she says again, her voice somehow impossibly softer. She touches his shoulder, gentle. She opens her mouth as if to speak but, as her eyes dart around the room, to Richie and away, it’s clear she doesn’t know what to say.

“I could’ve saved him,” Richie says instead. He knows his tone is anguished and petulant at the same time; he doesn’t really care. 

“Richie, no. The place was coming down. We wouldn’t have been able to get him out, and get us out too.”

“Maybe that’s what should’ve happened, then.” Richie chases his biting words with another heavy sip of bourbon. “Maybe we all should’ve died down there.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Beverly hisses. Her gentle touch on his shoulder turns to a swift punch, nearly hard enough to send him skittering off his seat. He faces her with wide eyes and realizes she’s crying, lips trembling. “You know none of us wanted to leave Eddie behind, but we weren’t all supposed to die down there. None of us should’ve died. But we couldn’t bring him back to life. He would’ve wanted us to be safe.”

Richie stares back at Beverly, caught and stricken by her watery glare. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. Emotion fills up his throat fast. “I’m sorry,” he croaks as tears spring to his eyes again. 

Beverly reaches out and yanks him into a hug. His shaking hand drops the glass of bourbon and it hits the countertop with a crash but doesn’t break; it only tips over, leaking what little alcohol was left onto the countertop. Richie ignores it and wraps his arms around Beverly tight instead. He sobs against her shoulder until his eyes hurt and his mouth is dry and she just holds him right back.

Eventually, he manages to murmur, “I loved him, I still love him,” miserably. 

“I know,” Beverly whispers back. “I know.”

Richie can’t quite bear to look at her yet. “I wanted to kiss him, right before. He looked so happy.” Richie’s breathing hitches and he bites his tongue hard enough to bleed. Beverly strokes his back. “Maybe if I had,” he says haltingly. “Maybe if I had pulled him down, Pennywise wouldn’t, wouldn’t have—?”

“No, Richie. There’s nothing we could’ve done.” Beverly pulls back from the hug and looks Richie in the eyes, gaze red-rimmed with tears but hard all the same. “There’s nothing we could’ve done. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“You don’t know that, though,” Richie retorts sharply. “You don’t fucking know that.”

Beverly flinches back slightly but not far. “You’re right,” she concedes. “I don’t. But you can’t live your life like that, Richie. Torturing yourself over what you could’ve done.” 

Richie withdraws further from Beverly and slides his arm right through the small puddle of spilled bourbon. “Fuck,” he mutters. Beverly is already up and out of her chair, coming around to the other side of the bar and grabbing a towel. She wipes the counter first, sets his discarded glass aside, then holds out the towel for Richie to take.

He wipes absently at his hand and sleeve. “How am I supposed to…” He starts but trails off. Richie shakes his head and throws the towel on the countertop with a wet splat. As kindly and sincerely as he can manage, Richie says, “Thanks, Bev.” He slides off his own stool and lets his long legs carry him quickly to the stairs and up to his room. He slams the door shut even as he hears Beverly’s sneakers thudding on the floor after him.

Richie leans against the door and sinks to the floor. Beverly stops at his door; he knows because her footsteps go quiet and there’s a shadow creeping into the room from the crack under the door. She doesn’t knock, though; he thinks he hears her sigh, maybe, before walking away. 

In a daze, Richie changes into a pair of clean pajamas and falls into bed. Despite the fitful beating of his heart and the haze of his messy thoughts, he’s asleep almost instantly. 

There’s warmth beside him in bed. Richie smiles to himself as he rolls onto his side and throws an arm over the body next to him. Soft skin is warm under his arm; his lover shifts slightly as he adjusts to Richie’s weight. He snores a bit, squirms, before settling again. Richie leans in and presses his face against his lover’s neck, inhaling their scent. Familiar, if dulled by a layer of sweat and fabric softener from the sheets. 

“Eds,” he murmurs. He kisses a mole where Eddie’s neck meets shoulder. “We gotta get up.” 

“Five more minutes,” Eddie slurs, burrowing deeper into his pillow. He lays a hand over Richie’s where it rests low on his stomach; nimble and clean-cut fingertips dance along Richie’s knobbly knuckles. 

“You’ll kill me if I let you be late again,” Richie replies with a laugh. He nips playfully at Eddie’s neck before sitting up. “C’mon, if we get up now, we can squeeze in a shower together.”

Eddie hums agreeably and finally rolls onto his back. He smiles up at Richie.

Richie smiles back. 

Until, at least, the sight before him properly sinks in. Eddie is grinning, yes, but it’s all wrong. Everything about him is wrong. His eyes are glassy and lifeless; the cut on his cheek has grown—almost from his ear to the corner of his mouth. It’s oozing blood, or some kind of dark sludge. When Eddie grins wider, showing off his blood-stained teeth, blackish-red dribbles down his chin. 

Richie swallows—the air tastes like copper and decay, he almost gags—and against his better judgement, he lets his gaze drift down.

Aside from the blood sluggishly trailing from his mouth to his neck, Eddie’s neck and shoulders almost look normal. Pristine, even, aside from moles. Even his chest is alright until Richie finally lays eyes on the gaping wound in the middle of his torso. Richie’s breathing catches and he chokes on the foul stench filling up the room. 

Before, in the dark, Richie hadn’t been able to see the wound so clearly—it had mostly looked like bloody ground beef, as sick as it is to say. Now though, with Eddie bare-chested—_no_, he thinks, _this isn’t Eddie, this isn’t real_—it’s even more gruesome. It seems to flex and twitch as Eddie breathes. It leaks the same bloody black ooze. It rolls down his ribs and onto the sheets. When Eddie laughs, a crackling and awful sound, the hole shakes and sputters. 

“What’s wrong, Richie? Not in the mood anymore?” Eddie asks in a voice that’s not his own. He keeps asking, over and over, and his voice gets louder, harsher, into an earsplitting growl. Eddie’s mouth keeps widening and Richie rears back as fear and adrenaline kick into his system, and he goes scrambling off the bed. 

His ankle catches in the sheets and he goes down hard, hitting the floor with a thud. As his head bounces against the hardwood, Richie wakes up. 

He stares at the ceiling and keeps his breathing slow and quiet. He actually is tangled up in the sheets, but the room doesn’t smell like blood and death anymore. There’s no sick squelching noises and no rattling breathing coming from the bed. 

Slowly, Richie gets to his knees and lets out a sigh of relief to see the bed blessedly devoid of anyone or anything. 

Then, Richie pillows his head in his arms and sobs. He feels like he’s going to be sick as flashes of the dream flicker behind his eyelids. When he feels a careful hand on his shoulder, he lets out a muffled, wet shriek. He whips around, tangling himself further in the mess of sheets, and comes face to face with Ben crouching beside him.

“Jesus, Hanscom, you trying to give me a heart attack?” Richie manages to bark. He presses a hand to his chest where his heart thuds uncomfortably fast. For a second he’d thought...Richie shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he thought. “What?” Richie snaps when Ben still hasn’t spoken.

“You screamed.” 

Richie blanches. Bile rises in his throat again. “It’s nothing.”

Ben narrows his eyes.

“Just a nightmare,” Richie amends. “Just a fucking nightmare.” It’s as if the admission sucks all the energy from his body. He sinks against the side of the bed and hangs his head, hands limp in his lap. Ben finally sits beside him instead of crouching, close enough that their knees bump.

Ben doesn’t say anything and at first, it annoys Richie. _Why be here if you’re not going to say anything? No wise words of comfort?_ A million nasty things to say spring to mind but Richie pushes them all aside and eventually his irritation fades. All that’s left are the remnants of adrenaline and fear. Richie rubs at his eyes, dry and raw even though he still feels like crying.

“Thanks,” Richie eventually manages to say. “For checking on me.”

“Of course,” Ben says softly. “You alright?”

Richie shrugs. Ben doesn’t move from beside him so Richie finally opens his eyes and flashes Ben a grin—it’s weak, feels brittle, but it’s there. “I stink,” Richie says. “I need to shower.”

“Alright.” Ben stands first and holds out a hand to Richie, helps him up and then helps him untangle himself from the sheets. They stand there an awkward moment longer and Richie is about to say something, anything to break the tension, when Ben pulls him forward and wraps him in a hug. 

Richie’s arms wrap around Ben on instinct and he clings. Ben doesn’t pull away until Richie does, and by then there are the sounds of the other Losers moving about the townhouse. Richie grins at Ben again, gets a grin in return, and then Ben leaves. 

Richie showers and forces the dream from his mind. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” 

Richie looks up at Mike, squinting. “Excuse me?” 

Mike nods toward the door of the townhouse, just out of sight. “A walk. Around town.”

Richie blinks. “Do you realize who you’re fucking talking to?”

Mike huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Richie Trashmouth Tozier, of course.”

Despite himself, Richie grins. “How about a drink, instead?”

“Trying to quit,” Mike replies simply. Richie nods even as the words make his urge to drink even stronger. “C’mon. Just a walk.” 

Richie lets out an exaggerated groan as he heaves himself off the couch and brushes imaginary dirt off his jeans. “Fine,” he sighs, long-suffering. “Let’s go then.”

He and Mike bump shoulders companionably as they leave. The fresh air and mild heat hit Richie like an electric shock and he almost stumbles down the steps of townhouse. He’s saved by Mike catching him by the elbow and tugging him upright.

“Thanks,” Richie breathes. 

“Careful.”

They make it down the steps in one piece and Richie lingers just long enough to let Mike lead the way. Mike smiles over his shoulder and motions for Richie to catch up.

They’ve been walking for a few minutes in silence when Richie finally speaks. “Is this your ‘check in on Richie’ talk?” 

Mike laughs again, the same soft laugh as earlier. “I guess, yeah.” Mike doesn’t look at him and kicks at a stray pebble as they walk. “Where do you think I should go?”

It takes Richie’s brain a moment to catch up. “What?”

“I’m leaving Derry,” Mike explains, even though Richie knows that. They’re all leaving Derry, soon, back to the lives they led before. And hopefully, this time, they won’t forget.

(Sometimes, Richie finds himself hoping he _will_ forget.) 

“So where should I go?” Mike asks again. “I’ve never even left Maine. I’ve never been further than the outskirts of town.” 

Richie shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, each hand fiddling with a stray thread coming loose in the seams. “California isn’t bad,” Richie says quietly. “I’ve got a couple friends who are fucking obsessed with Seattle and Portland, too.” 

Mike nods along. “What’s the weather like in California?”

“Hot and dry as balls all the fucking time,” Richie replies swiftly. “It’s crowded and busy as fuck—in LA, I mean—and people don’t know how to fucking drive.” Richie scoffs. Then he smiles. “I think I liked it because I knew it was so different from Derry.”

“What about Seattle?”

“Wet. Only been there a couple times for shows and shit, but it’s always wet.”

Mike hums; Richie doesn’t ask what’s going through his head, even though the other man looks deep in thought. 

They walk in silence after that and for once, for the first time in a long fucking time, Richie doesn’t mind the meandering silence coupled with their footsteps. It’s not awkward or tense; there’s no urge to fill the silence. It’s quiet, and the quiet is good. 

Mike yawns eventually, drawing Richie from his thoughts. “I’m going to head back, I think.”

Richie nods and even though his legs are tired, he says, “I’m gonna keep going. I’ll be back later.”

Mike hesitates long enough to stare at him, concerned. But he doesn’t protest. He reaches out and grips Richie’s shoulder, squeezes, and then turns to start walking back the way they came. 

Richie turns away and keeps walking.

Richie walks until his legs can’t carry him anymore and that just happens to be the Neibolt house. 

Or rather, what’s left of it. 

It’s nearing dusk now and the whole town is painted in hues of orange and pink and purple—but Richie isn’t really paying attention to that. No, all his focus is on the burnt out, crumpled shell of a home. It’s almost level now; Richie’s convinced, as he stares, that pieces are still sinking into the ground.

He thinks for a single crazed moment maybe he could sink into the ground too and find Eddie’s body. 

He shakes off the thought and finally gives in to the ache in his legs. He drops to the dusty gravel and crosses his legs. He stares at the overgrown grass and the pile of rubble and clenches his hands into tight fists until his nails bite into the skin of his palms. Richie bows his head and closes his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His throat hurts from swallowing back unshed tears. “I’m sorry, Eds.” He brings his fists to his face and presses them against his eyes until spots dance across his vision. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says again. 

His eyes are dry and aching by the time he hears the sound of a rickety bike hurtling across gravel. The wheels creak as the bike skids to a half, followed by the soft sound of worn out converse on pavement. 

“Ruh-Richie.” 

He doesn’t look up. 

“It’s getting late.” Even so, Bill falls onto the ground beside him. Bill looks at what remains of Neibolt. “We could still have a service for h-him,” Bill murmurs. 

“And bury what? An inhaler, in his honor?” Richie still doesn’t look up. His fists are stiff and unmoving because he can’t bring himself to unclench them; the pain of his nails in the tender skin of his palms keeps him grounded. Or maybe it just keeps him distracted. 

“I duh-don’t know,” Bill says. He draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. “Just seems wrong not to do _something_.”

“We could’ve done something,” Richie hisses. 

Bill looks at him, something Richie only sees from the corner of his eye. “No, we couldn’t, Richie,” he says, tone and voice perfectly even and swift. “You know that.” 

Richie doesn’t reply immediately. 

“If we could have brought him back, we would’ve.” 

Richie doesn’t nod but Bill sits back, facing Neibolt again. 

“I’m so fucking sick of crying,” Richie mutters. 

“I know.” Bill stands and brushes dust off his jeans. He holds out a hand to Richie. “C’mon. Let’s get back.” 

Richie takes Bill hand and lets himself be hauled to his feet. Bill squeezes his hand for a second before turning back to Silver and swinging a leg over the seat. “C’mon,” Bill says again.

“There’s no way that’s going to take us both.” Richie steps hesitantly toward the bike. “We’re going to die.”

Bill lets out a loud, bright laugh. “What, you scared, Trashmouth?” 

Richie rolls his eyes. “Bring it on, Big Bill.” He balances his feet on the spokes of the back wheel and swears they creak dangerously under his weight. “If I die, I’m gonna haunt the fuck out of you.” 

“Fuh-fair enough,” Bill says, and Richie doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s grinning. 

Richie stops by the kissing bridge before he leaves Derry. Bill has already taken a flight out, Ben and Bev have fucked off to who knows where—with promises to call as soon as they’re settled—and Mike and Richie have plans to meet up in Seattle, at some point. So Richie is on his own for the first time in what feels like years and he parks just a few feet from the bridge. 

He pulls his pocket knife out of his pocket and drops to his knees, running a hand over the worn carving. 

Richie walks onto the stage with both hands waving. The cheers are deafening. He reaches the microphone but stops to take a long drink of his water first before reaching for the mic, taking it off the stand. “How are you motherfuckers doing tonight?” He asks to a response of riotous cheers. He grins and wishes, idly, that he could see the people losing their shit in the crowd; the stage lights leave him blinded.

As he remembers his first joke—a last minute addition—he’s glad he can’t see individual faces.

Eventually, the cheering dies down into the still silence of an eager crowd. Richie takes a deep breath and brings his mic back to his lips. 

“So, there’s this ice breaker that everyone fuckin’ loves, right? Any drama kids in the house? You probably know this one. Or if your boss is a soul sucking dickhead who things ice breakers actually, like, _build_ relationships.” Richie pauses for a laugh. “It’s called two truths and a lie. The gist is, you tell two truths and a lie, and everyone else,” he gestures widely across the crowd, “Has to guess which thing is the lie.

“I hate ice breakers,” Richie says as an aside. “But I fucking _love_ this one, and I’ll tell you why.” He turns sharp and slowly walks across the stage in the opposite direction, the mic corn thwipping behind him. “I love this fucking ice breaker because here’s what I say, every time.”

So it’s a bit of a lie; at least he wrote the material this time. 

He holds up finger for each statement: “I say I was born and raised in Maine, my friends called me Trashmouth as a kid, and I’m bisexual.” He lets the silence hit him, full impact. The crowd is so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. He grins, despite the anxiety coursing through his veins. “I fucking _love_ the look on people’s faces when I say I’m not _bisexual_, I’m _gay_!” 

A moment of stunned silence before applause—cheers—whistling and the distinct sounds of someone saying very loudly, _“holy fucking shit!”_

Stan’s letter comes back to him: _be proud_. Eddie’s face comes back to him, a bittersweet twinge in his chest. Richie stands up a little straighter—people are still cheering with no signs of dying down—and holds his mic a little tighter.

Richie grins, and basks in it. 

**Author's Note:**

> [hey, if you liked this, give it a reblog on tumblr maybe!](https://punk-rock-yuppie.tumblr.com/post/187557709561/moving-onwards-and-outwards-reddie-gen)


End file.
